I Surrender
by QueenMindi
Summary: And how could I ever refuse? I feel like I win when I lose...


**Notes:** Think elf/human is perfectly fine, but Urgal/human is gross? Then prepare to have your previous biases challenged. I am pro-Urgal rights, and think the best thing CP ever did was humanizing his "villain race." I wrote this not so much to shock people as to prove it's _not_ shocking at all.

I have a bad habit of basing my oneshots off of ABBA songs. This one was inspired by "Waterloo," possibly my all-time favorite of theirs, and the song is quoted at the end.

I realize that this is freakishly long for a one-shot, but what can I say. I was REALLY inspired. And also I am bad at writing short things.

***

**I Surrender**

***

"I still don't like it."

"We have no choice, Eragon," Nasuada said firmly. "If there were anyone else I could trust to send, believe me, I'd do it. I _know_ I'm needed here. But I am the human Nar Garzhvog trusts most, so I must be the emissary."

"But—"

Nasuada sighed. This had to be the fourth time she'd been through the list. She began to tick candidates off on her fingers. "Roran is busy getting his council in order and learning how to be King. Orrin spends some of his time writing peace treaties and the rest of it blowing smoke rings out of unlikely parts of his anatomy. Murtagh's still with the elves having his mind healed from Thorn's death and Galbatorix's control. And you—well, even if you _liked_ the Urgals, which you don't, you'd still have to stay and help Roran. He needs you."

"I like them," Eragon said stiffly. "Garzhvog and I get on well enough."

"You are not their friend," Nasuada said. "You are their ally. There is a difference."

"And you _are_? Their friend, I mean?"

"I'd like to think so." Nasuada made sure her mental wards were securely in place, so that Eragon would not see: long days spent in the Urgals' camp outside the city, learning their battle techniques. She'd been surprised to learn that, despite their size, Urgals fought with a grace that made them almost beautiful. Sure, on the battlefield they seemed brutish, but then so did her people. In fair single combat they were mesmerizing to watch.

Garzhvog had become a good friend during that time. At first, he had tolerated her relative weakness and small size with a sort of paternal bemusement; but after awhile he'd begun talking to her. She asked questions about their customs, tried to understand their cultural mindset—their religion, their food, their ways of seeing things like war, love, art, and beauty. In return, she told Garzhvog about life as a human, from her upbringing in the desert tribe to living among the dwarves and feeling like such an outsider.

The Urgals fascinated her, and she liked to think she was interesting to them as well.

"Why can't one of the elves go?" Eragon demanded, interrupting her thoughts.

"The elves have little to do with this," Nasuada said. "I believe Queen Arya has already negotiated a peace treaty with several tribes, but that is her business. It is we humans who mistreat them the most, and so it is I—chief advisor to the King—who must extend the offer of a cease-fire."

The mention of Arya's name shut him up. Ever since the new elf-queen had turned away his advances for the final time (publicly, and in a manner that was hardly flattering to his ego), he could hardly bear to hear her name mentioned without stalking out of the room in bad humor. Nasuada had pitied him at first, but after awhile had begun to see that it was hard to fault the elf for doing what any woman with half a brain would have done.

"Right then," he said finally, his tone gruff. "When do you leave?"

"If all goes well—tomorrow morning."

He nodded. "Good luck, then."

She waited for him to leave, but he lingered in the doorway, seeming to have something else to say. After a moment of hedging, he blurted, "And watch yourself with the Urgal men. They're bigger than you and they could easily overpower a human woman—"

Nasuada stood up abruptly. "Eragon," she said coldly, "Nar Garzhvog has promised me complete protection while I am in his camp. I do not doubt his word, nor do I doubt the obedience of his men."

"Right," Eragon mumbled.

"And besides," she added, "human men or Kull, they are all sensitive in the same places. My father did not raise a defenseless daughter, nor a stupid one."

Eragon fled, and Nasuada sank back into her chair. Truth be told, she was more nervous than she dared admit, even to herself. The same worries Eragon had tried to voice had been weighing heavily on her mind. She knew Garzhvog was a friend, but some of his men—like his brother, Skgahgrezh—looked at her in a way she did not like. Appraising and lecherously curious. She'd seen it on human men all the time, and once on that weird blue-furred elf. No matter who wore the look, it made her skin crawl.

Shaking off the disconcerting memories of her conversation with Eragon, she rose from her desk. If she was to leave tomorrow, she would have to hurry up with her packing.

***

Nar Garzhvog shaded his eyes. Aye, she was coming sure enough—a red dawn was just coloring the eastern horizon, and she had promised she'd be here at daybreak.

Her two attendants rode with her, as she'd said. Another human woman, smaller than Lady Nightstalker, and a stripling boy, not yet old enough to have made his first kill. Both of the Lady's companions had the pale pink skin that was prevalent among the humans. He wished more of them had the Nightstalker's coloring—it was better to look at than that insipid white-pink.

Nasuada Nightstalker saw him standing watch and lifted her hand to wave. When she was close enough, she dismounted from her horse-beast and came to greet him with the curious bobbing bow that human women employed as a sign of deference. Nasuada had told him it was called a "curtsy"—a shortened version, she'd explained, of the word "courtesy."

"Garzhvog," she said, smiling. The effect of her white teeth against her brown skin was pleasing. The first time he'd seen her smile, it had sent a shock of interest through him. "I'd like you to meet my handmaid, Farica; and my messenger-boy, Jarsha."

The pink woman dismounted from her own beast and stood next to Nasuada. Garzhvog saw by her body language that the handmaid was trying to hide behind her mistress. The boy was braver; he stood with his shoulders back and chin up, attempting to make himself look larger. Garzhvog recognized the trick—males of every species knew it, himself included.

He repeated their names, touching his horns in respect—a gesture he'd invented to replace the bellowing head-butt that was his culture's custom. The hornless humans tended to take it as a threat rather than a courtesy. "Any friend of Lady Nightstalker's is welcome always."

Farica repeated her mistress's bow. "Good to meet you," she replied nervously.

To Garzhvog's surprise, the boy attempted the Urgal greeting—letting out a wild yell, his voice breaking in the middle of it, and pounding a fist into his own chest.

Garzhvog, amused, replied in kind, choosing not to attempt a head-butt with this puny boy. The boy's eyes widened in fright, but he stood his ground.

The Kull laughed to himself before catching Nasuada's reproving look. "Your servant has a warrior's heart," he said in his own language, speaking slowly so that she would understand.

"You should not frighten him," Nasuada replied in a heavy, stumbling accent.

"And you should not teach him our culture by halves," Garzhvog replied.

He could see he'd won from the flash of steel in her eyes. She turned around and marched away, her two servants trailing behind.

As they turned away, Skgahgrezh came up next to Garzhvog. His younger brother was a head shorter than he was, but broader in neck, shoulders, and limbs. "Human women in the camp," he commented in their native tongue. "Brother, if negotiations go bad, can I have the pale one?"

Grezh was Garzhvog's trusted right-hand man, but sometimes Garzhvog wanted to dismember him.

"No one is to touch those women," Garzhvog said harshly. "Especially not you, Grezh. Would not your brood-mate be angry?"

Grezh growled. "Do not speak to me of _her_." He had won the most beautiful woman in the village as his mate, only to find after a year that he could not stand her. Divorce was possible in Urgal villages, if both male and female agreed to the separation and, in the presence of witnesses from each of their families, unraveled the hearth-rug they had been weaving together. But the woman Grezh had chosen refused to allow him to undo their union—her first kid had just been born, and she knew no ram would take her with another ram's child attached.

"Then leave the humans be," Garzhvog ordered. "Did I not order you to help Corzvek with packing?"

"Aye, Nar." Though his brother injected all the flippant disrespect into the title that he could, he was still obliged to go and carry out his orders.

Garzhvog growled to himself. Grezh didn't seem to understand just how important Nasuada's presence was—how important this homecoming was. They hadn't been home in over a year. When they marched back, victorious, to their women, elders, and children, the village's first sight of their sons and husbands would be preceded by the sight of Garzhvog marching allied with a human, and an important human at that—for Nasuada was powerful in both present position and past deeds. It would set the deep racial prejudices on end, and hopefully in time overturn them. Perhaps one day, Garzhvog's children—if ever he had any—would play in the streets of the city with Nasuada's children.

_I ought to choose a brood-mate now_, he thought. Before the war, as a young Kull, many women had sought him, but none had ever caught his eye. His dreams were all on glory and the flames of war.

Now, though… he was seasoned in battle, had proved himself a fearsome warrior, and now he was tired. It was time to turn his energy to more domestic pursuits.

It was time to weave himself a hearth-rug.

***

The Spine.

Nasuada had never been there before—only heard the stories, armies marching in and never coming back out. Garzhvog told that story differently. His grandfather had rallied several tribes and laid an ambush for Galbatorix's men, and after a bloody battle that resulted in only minor losses on the Urgals' side, they buried the bodies in a mass grave and threw a festival lasting four days.

In most cases, Nasuada would have frowned on the Urgals' haphazard killing; but she couldn't help a satisfied smile after he finished that tale. It was a pity they hadn't killed Galbatorix himself and saved future generations a lot of trouble.

The branch of Urgal tribes that lived there were the most hostile to her cause, mainly because they had been the tribes whose warriors Durza had enslaved. There were other branches, in the Northlands and the foothills of the Beors, but the difficulty lay in smoothing things over with the Spine tribes, left broken in the war's wake.

Marching with the warriors was grueling. They never stopped for breaks, never even slowed down. She and her two companions rode horseback, aware that it was impossible to keep up with them otherwise, but theirs were the only horses in the company. All the warriors' belongings were carried on their backs, and even heavy weights did not seem to slow their pace.

They reached the first village after an exhausting four days of travel. Along the shore of Woadark Lake, well-disguised in the forest underbrush, the Zrakhen tribe eked out a living as hunters and gatherers. They had watched sixty rams march to the war. Now, they gathered in a crowd to watch a mere dozen march back home.

Nasuada, at the forefront of the legion, felt tears spring to her eyes at the scene. Some women fiercely embraced their mates, kissing and petting them despite having an audience; most of them, bereaved, lifted up their voices to wail. Their cries of sorrow were resonating and almost musical, broken by racking sobs.

She felt their pain in the deepest part of her heart—the place she reserved for her father's beloved memory. She knew what it was to watch a loved one charge into battle and to never see him return. Bowing her head, she allowed herself to weep for the lives lost in the war.

After a moment, a large hand covered hers on the reins. Looking up, she saw that Garzhvog had drawn close and taken her hand. She thought he was comforting her until he said in an undertone, "Good. To pretend to weep will teach them you are not evil."

She meant to tell him she was not pretending, but he had already moved away to speak to the tribe's Herndall.

***

They camped for the night in the woods around the Zrakhen village.

Garzhvog stayed awake to watch Nasuada at her campfire. He knew she must be exhausted, but she wasted precious minutes of rest to speak to her two subordinates. From her gestures and their body language, he understood they were afraid and she was trying to tell them there was no need for fear.

She was wrong.

Though Nasuada displayed an admirable command of his language for a human, he knew she hadn't caught all the nuances of today's events. To see humans in the returning party had given some of the Urgralgra the impression that she represented the conquering race. To his people, the war was not good humans against a bad human king. It was humans against Urgralgra—and his people had lost, all of them, regardless of the side they fought for.

He hoped that the attitude would be different in other villages, but he doubted it would. Regardless of Lady Nightstalker's best efforts, there could be trouble. And if he protected her, he was going to be blamed for it.

***

The days went by in a fatiguing blur. Each reunion scene was the same—some blind joy but mostly wrenching sorrow—and Nasuada tried to harden herself against the pain. But try as she might, she couldn't ignore the hostility that glowed in the eyes of every Urgal woman who looked at her. They blamed her for their losses.

It was even more taxing for poor Farica and Jarsha. The two of them were both soundly regretting their decision to come with her, though she was grateful for their presence. It was difficult being the only humans in a legion of Urgals, especially since most of them nursed a wary distrust of their motives. Just as human women used Urgals as a monster to frighten their children, Urgal women taught their children that humans were wicked, making up for their fragile bodies with cunning manipulation of those around them.

The worst was that they weren't all wrong; after all she'd seen in the war, Nasuada couldn't blame them for hating her kind. For every good person, there seemed to be a dozen spiteful, jealous, greedy ones.

_But that's how it always is_, she thought. _With Urgals too, I imagine. There's no such thing as a race of perfect people… well, except the elves, but they pay the price of being dead dull_.

She tried to explain all this to her attendants, but both of them persisted in expressing a desire to go home as soon as possible.

Through all this, Garzhvog was taciturn and aloof. She wished he would be more forthcoming with reassurance or even idle chat—but that was not his way. He spoke when he had something to say, and did not force conversation for its own sake.

One misty morning, as they ascended a rocky hill, he spoke to her for what felt like the first time in a month. Garzhvog had taken her horse's reins to guide it along the narrow path, and near the summit of the hill he looked back and said abruptly, "We are not far from my home village."

"Oh," Nasuada said, surprised. She had forgotten that they would inevitably stop there. Now she wondered what was to become of the legion. Would Garzhvog lead the way to the other villages, or would the group disperse, members each tribe finding their own way home? And if Garzhvog stayed in the Bolvek village, what would happen to her?

Garzhvog said no more, but she sensed the same questions were on his mind.

When the Bolvek village came into view, Nasuada felt a surge of pity. The place was not well-kept. The huts were small and quite old; it was obvious that the village had suffered in its time.

Even so, the carved tree trunks depicting animal and Urgal faces caught her attention immediately. Each carving stood proudly protecting the village, a hint of proud spirit in an otherwise ugly environment.

Then, as they entered into the village, she saw the tapestries that adorned the outside of their huts. Brightly colored, exquisitely woven, they were the finest work she'd ever seen. If she had thought the village unattractive before, she now repented—their artwork was nothing short of beautiful.

"That is _namna_," Garzhvog told her quietly. "You would say—a picture cloth?"

"Tapestry," she corrected him.

"Yes. It tells family history of who live in that house."

Now that he mentioned it, she could see whole stories played out in the stitches. Strong rams fighting beasts like bears and wolves; marriages, deaths, births; tales of epic battles and of uncommon love affairs. She smiled. _We may look different, but Urgals and humans are much the same in daily life_.

"Ah!" The usual crowd was gathering, and now an Urgal woman broke free from the ranks and ran to Garzhvog's brother. "Grezh!" she cried, embracing him. He stood stiff, glowering. Behind the woman, a child toddled—hornless, curly-haired, with large, innocent golden eyes. Nasuada hadn't seen many Urgal children, but she thought this one strangely endearing. Next to a human child he would be considered ugly, but he had his own charm. Something about the pudgy gray fingers and solemn expression…

The boy was clearly Skgahgrezh's son, because the woman tried to push him into his arms. Garzhvog's brother resisted, an uncomfortable look about him as the child babbled at him.

By now there were reunions and grieving everywhere. Nasuada turned her attention to Garzhvog, who had no mate running to greet him. Strange. She had been expecting him to be married.

At last, someone did come to welcome him: a young woman who was quite pretty by Urgal standards. Her blue-black hair was arranged in a complicated style around her small, stubby horns, and she wore a robe dyed a deep reddish-purple.

Listening carefully, Nasuada understood that this was the Herndall of the village, and that she had not been in power when Garzhvog left. He seemed to know her well—perhaps she was related to him.

As she eyed the woman, she became aware that the Herndall was sizing her up as well. The way she looked her up and down was not complimentary, and Nasuada didn't like the calculating glitter of her eyes.

Garzhvog caught the Herndall's side glance and seemed to remember Nasuada's presence. He spoke in his own language to the woman, gesturing at her, and then said in Nasuada's language, "This is Karzhera Herndall."

Nasuada, unsure what to do, settled for bowing her head respectfully. "Good to meet you," she said, with Garzhvog translating her words.

She wanted to ask Garzhvog more about Karzhera, but it would be rude to talk about the woman right in front of her. So she held her tongue and focused her efforts on understanding their rapid conversation. Despite being immersed in the language for several days, much of it still eluded her. She knew about enough to have a comfortable conversation with Skgahgrezh's little child, provided he was a very _simple_ child.

After a long interval, Garzhvog turned back to her. "The Herndall asks we sleep here tonight," he told her. "She prepares a feast for warriors' safe return."

"That is kind of her," Nasuada said, glancing at Karzhera. The Urgal woman was watching her very closely. "You have accepted?" When he dipped his head, she said, "Please thank her on my behalf."

He did so. Karzhera fired off a quick retort and moved away to speak to Skgahgrezh.

"What did she say?" Nasuada asked.

Garzhvog shifted uncomfortably. "She said, she not extend hospitality for your benefit."

"Doesn't like me, eh?"

He grinned at her flippant tone. His teeth, against the gray of his skin, were sharp ivory. "She does not," he confirmed. "I am glad you take no offense."

"Why should I? She has every reason to hate me, I'm sure." Nasuada dismounted from her horse and then wished she hadn't. Talking to him from horseback, she was almost at his eye level; on her own two feet, he dwarfed her. "Is she your sister, Garzhvog?"

He chuckled, the guttural sound like coughing or gagging. Nasuada had been quite disconcerted by the sound of his laugh until she got used to it. "Karzhera, my sister? It is—what is the word?—_good luck_, yes, it is good luck for me that she is not." His golden eyes focused somewhere far away. "I knew her when we were children. She always tell us what to do. Not surprise that she is Herndall now." He shook his head. "After my first kill, when I slew cave bear, she—try to make love to me?"

Nasuada blushed, and was glad her skin tone did not show it. "She courted you," she corrected, guessing he didn't mean the other, more intimate kind of making love.

"Ah, yes. She courted me. I was young, I wanted to prove myself in battle—I did not wish to take a mate. Karzhera was angry when I tell her this. It is not long after that, Durza came and take us. I have not seen her since. To meet her again is—is—"

"Awkward," Nasuada supplied.

He laughed again. "Yes. _Very_ awkward."

"I'll stay on her good side, then," Nasuada said. "She doesn't sound like the type of woman to cross."

Garzhvog sobered. "That is wise," he said. "She is dangerous if she not get what she wants."

***

The feast was nothing short of a fantasy.

A few of the young rams, their horns barely grown in, had gone out hunting for the occasion and brought back six deer and a wild boar, plus dozens of birds. The women were in a frenzy of cooking, while their returned soldiers turned the spits over the fire.

Garzhvog, having volunteered to help turn the boar, stood close to the fire and felt his skin glow with the heat and light. The smells, sights, and sounds of home swirled around him, and he breathed it all in. This place was a part of him, and he felt he must have been insane to ever want to leave.

High-pitched laughter caught his attention, and he turned his head to look. Nasuada was kneeling in the dust, surrounded by a crowd of overexcited kids. They were patting her cheeks, playing with her slender fingers, fingering the material of her dress. One little girl put the human woman's hair in disarray, searching her scalp for the horns that she thought for sure must be hidden there.

Nasuada bore their curiosity with admirable grace. She was answering their questions in a slow, broken accent, and her teeth glowed white in the late afternoon sunlight. Her brown eyes sparkled with laughter.

Quite unexpectedly, Garzhvog realized that he thought her beautiful.

He shook his head. _What are you about, Garzhvog? She is a human. An entirely different race_.

_It is not wrong to think her looks pleasing_, said another part of him. _As long as you do not wish to take her as a mate. Only a blind man could deny that she looks better than the paler humans_. His eyes found Farica and Jarsha, standing together in an obscure corner, both looking uncomfortable. _It is natural, too, to feel protective of a creature smaller and weaker than oneself. That is all you feel. There is no true attraction_.

"Nar Garzhvog," someone said.

He looked round, irrationally annoyed. "What is it?" he snapped.

The youth who'd spoken, a boy whose horns were just growing in, cowered. "I just—uh—Nar, you stopped turning the spit, and the boar is burning."

Garzhvog saw this was true, and now directed his annoyance at himself. How could he let a human distract him in such a way? The sooner they parted ways, the better it would be for everybody.

***

"I must tell you something," Garzhvog said quietly, under the cover of the surrounding chatter.

They sat around the fire partaking of the feast. An Urgal feast was something else—Nasuada had been shocked to find that everyone sat on the ground and ate with their fingers. The food was eaten from one's own bowl, and filled from pots still steaming from the fire. Urgals favored meat as the center of their diet, but there were also dishes made from greens or potato-like roots. All of it was hot, rich, and savory—even the drinks, a dark beer and tea so black she thought it would curl her hair. It was hard for Nasuada to eat too much of it at once, but she wasn't surprised to learn that Garzhvog and his fellows could consume huge portions and go back for more.

"Yes?" she asked, catching the serious tone of his voice.

"I stay here when you go," he told her. "You go on to the last two villages. Then two of my rams will see you home safe."

Nasuada had thought such an announcement was coming, but she wasn't prepared for how disappointed she'd feel. "Do you have to?" she asked impulsively. "I feel safer with you nearby."

He looked away, and she blushed again at how pathetic she must sound.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I understand why you'd want to stay here. You've been away so long… I said that without thinking. Of course you should stay. I daresay I can get by well enough."

He gave her a small smile, and she thought it seemed sadder than his usual toothy grin. "Thank you," he said.

He looked like he would say more, but at that moment Karzhera came to sit between them. She smiled widely at Garzhvog, and then at Nasuada—though it wasn't hard to sense the falsity behind it.

She said something, and Garzhvog looked up questioningly. Karzhera shrugged her shoulders in response.

"She wants to know if she may bring us more drinks," Garzhvog said.

Nasuada was about to reply that hers was full, but he added, "It is a sign of service. From Herndall, is an honor. She may take offense if you refuse."

"Well, all right then," Nasuada said. "But tea, please, not beer."

Garzhvog relayed this message to Karzhera, and the Herndall got up. She returned a minute later with two cups, and watched expectantly until they drank from them and thanked her.

"Ugh," Nasuada said, making a face. "She gave me yours. This beer is terrible."

He traded cups with her; but one sip of his own drink, and he managed to fumble and drop the cup, spilling everything.

Nasuada offered her handkerchief to dab the stains from his clothes, but instead he reached over and knocked her cup out of her hand. It rolled into the embers of the fire, irretrievable.

"Why did you do that?" she hissed.

"She put poison in it," he said in her ear.

Nasuada choked and put a hand to her throat.

"Not deadly poison," Garzhvog amended, to her immense relief. "A—sleeping poison."

"She drugged it."

"Yes. There was less of it in your drink. I did not taste it until we traded."

Nasuada groaned. "I drank a mouthful of yours. If it has enough in it to put you out, I'll be under in no time."

"I will stop her," said Garzhvog grimly. "Whatever she plans, I will not let her hurt you."

"Thanks," Nasuada said. Already she felt her eyelids drooping. "Sorry."

"Is her fault, not yours."

She fell asleep against his arm, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing.

***

Garzhvog fought the sleepy lethargy that crept into his limbs. Karzhera had left nothing to chance—she'd dosed his drink double. If he'd drunk all of it without noticing, it probably could have killed him. As it was… he slid his arm around Nasuada, supporting her as he tipped her head back to check her breathing. She was alive, but wouldn't wake for many hours. Maybe even days.

"Ugh, look at that," Karzhera said next to his ear. He twitched. How could he be so out of it that she could sneak up on him? "Humans are such weaklings. I'll get her off you."

Garzhvog batted Karzhera's hands away. "No. I will take her."

"It's no trouble," Karzhera said. "She probably weighs less than a child. You look tired, too. Shall I come back to carry _you_ to bed?"

Her last comment had a sneering lasciviousness to it that Garzhvog did not like. Karzhera was, most unfortunately, still unwed. Perhaps that was her motivation for whatever she was plotting—did she still want to ensnare him?

Annoyed, he got to his feet and scooped up Nasuada's limp form. Karzhera was right—she was light as a feather. "I will carry her," he snapped.

Karzhera shrugged. "'Tis all the same to me. Do what you wish. I just wanted to help."

Garzhvog did not believe _that_ for a moment.

Away from the circle of firelight, the evening was cool and quiet. He strode through the village, tracing the often-walked path to the cluster of huts that his family claimed as home.

The fire inside was lit. Garzhvog paused to scan the namna hanging outside, smiling at the old, familiar pictures. At the bottom was a new line of embroidery, starting with Skgahgrezh's marriage and followed by a depiction of the warriors marching out to war. After that, the only thing of note that had happened was the old Herndall being taken to Rahna in her sleep.

Yawning at the reminder of sleep, Garzhvog ducked into the little dwelling.

"Ah _myka_, welcome home."

He grinned. "Baba!"

His mother knelt in front of the hearth, her slate-gray hair unbound, painstakingly weaving the next row in the hearth-rug. Since his father's death in battle some twenty years previous, she had been working on it herself to preserve his memory. She suffered pains in her limbs and no longer left the house; his elder sister Ferazhka looked after her.

"Who is this, eh?" His mother gestured at Nasuada. "No, I can guess. It is the human female I have heard so much about. You caused an uproar bringing her, son, that is certain."

"I know." He looked down at the sleeping woman regretfully. It had been a mistake to bring her. "Baba, Karzhera drugged her. I don't know why. Is there a place I can lay her until she wakes?"

"Karzhera needs a good hard smack," said his mother. "I have always said this, but no one would listen. Let me call Ferazhka. She will make up a place for your human lady."

"She's not _my_ human lady," Garzhvog said, and then shook his head. His mother was good at this—bewildering him and making him feel like a hornless child again.

"Ferazhka," his mother called. "I need you!"

Garzhvog's sister entered right on cue. "All _right_, Baba. Garzhvog! Why are you carrying a dead human?"

"She is not dead," Garzhvog said. "Hello to you too, Ferazhka."

He quickly explained what had happened with Karzhera. Ferazhka didn't look surprised. "All right, then," she said. "But I'm not putting her in with my children. There's room in Rada and Usha's old hut."

Their grandparents had been dead for some time, and the place was bound to be horribly dirty. Before he left, Garzvog's family had been saving it for when he took a mate and started a family. He imagined they were using it for storage purposes now. But he understood Ferazhka's reluctance to put Nasuada in with her own family, so he said, "That is fine."

"When she's settled, you will come back, Gar, yes?" His mother smiled at him, her soft yellow eyes lined at the corners.

"Yes, of course, Baba." He longed to put his arms around her as he did when he was a child, and breathe in her comforting mother-scent. "I'll be right back."

He followed Ferazhka out the back door and across the small, circular yard shared by the cluster of family huts. "Tell me the truth, sister," he said, "how long has it been since you cleaned inside Rada's house?"

Ferazhka hedged. "No more than three seasons," she admitted finally.

Garzhvog groaned. The place would probably be full of spider webs and dust by now, and the thatch would desperately need replacing. He had his work cut out for him, putting his new household in order without a woman to make it a home. He really did need to choose a mate, and soon.

"Go ahead," Ferazhka said, stepping back from the open doorway. "I'll go fetch a coal from Baba's hearth to start the fire."

"Thank you." Garzhvog ducked his head as he entered. He'd long ago got used to doing so—being a head taller than most members of his tribe, he was forever hitting his head on things.

As he stepped over the threshold, Nasuada limp in his arms, he suddenly remembered the old tradition of a ram carrying his intended brood-mate into his house. The tradition was a remnant from the days when mates were often captured from enemy tribes and brought by force back to their captor's village. Now it represented the woman's surrender to her mate's love—and symbolized her willingness to trust all she owned into his care.

Shaking off that thought, he looked around the dingy room. Hardly any furniture had been left, and all of the cooking utensils had been divided between the women in the family. It was expected that his mate would bring her own with her; until he chose one, he would have to borrow his mother's.

Usha and Rada's hearth-rug still lay in the place of honor before the cold fireplace. They had woven it together for almost sixty years before Usha—a great warrior—was brought low in a hunt. Checking that it was not too damp, Garzhvog lay Nasuada down there, and then went to explore the sleeping room. He could not hope for straw pallets that weren't moldy, but perhaps there would be extra quilts or blankets to keep Nasuada warm.

As he searched through the trunk in the hall, he heard a sound. Probably a mouse, but with Karzhera out to get him he couldn't afford to take chances. Poking his head cautiously into the sleeping room, he called out, "Hello?"

Muffled screams reached his ears. He squinted into the shadows. Bound together, back to back, were two figures—too small and slender to be Urgals.

Nasuada's companions!

Garzhvog swore harshly. "Farica—Jarsha—who has done this?"

They were gagged, so all they could do is make frenzied noises, struggling to point out what he didn't notice until it was too late: Skgahgrezh standing behind the door, a thick club held over his head.

"Drajl—" was all Garzhvog could say before the club hit him between the horns. Bright lights flashed behind his eyelids, and he didn't remember hitting the floor.

***

Nasuada woke, head pounding, to dawn light streaming through the window. She sat up, wondering where she was. And Garzhvog, where was—

"Nasuada! Oh, thank gods!"

Farica's embrace almost knocked her back down. "Farica! What's going on?"

"They tied us up and put us in this horrid reeking hovel," Farica said. "It took us all night to slip the ropes off. Look at my hands." She held up her wrists, which were red and raw. "Jarsha's with that big Nar fellow. He almost bled out right next to us before we could do anything about it—oh, Nasuada, it was terrible!"

Nasuada was on her feet before she could even register being dizzy. She swayed and leaned heavily on Farica's shoulder. "But he's all right now?"

"We don't know yet," Farica said. "Maybe you shouldn't be walking around just yet, my lady…"

"I have to see him."

Her no-nonsense tone put an end to Farica's protests. The lady's maid supported her as she walked into a smaller room adjoining the main living space. Garzhvog lay on his back on the floor, and Jarsha was using the corner of a blanket to put pressure on an ugly, bloody wound on the crown of the Urgal's head.

"Oh gods." Nasuada knelt next to him. "How long has he been like this?"

"We saw it happen," Farica babbled nervously. "That creepy fellow, his brother, was waiting for him. He came in and saw us, and when he went to help us, the other one hit him."

"Grezh is in on this?" Nasuada sighed. She should have known. "What about Karzhera? Did you see her?"

"No, not the Herndall, only that other woman. Um, Grezh? Is that right? Grezh, he called her _sister_."

"So his own family plotted against him," Nasuada said, looking down at her friend sadly.

But she couldn't spare time for pity. "Have you tried to get out of here?" she asked her two companions.

"We tried the doors," Jarsha said. "They're barricaded. And the windows are too small to fit through."

"Try again," Nasuada said. "Break pieces off the wall if you have to. It won't be too hard, I dare say. This place is crumbling with disrepair. Farica, find whatever furniture you can and see if you can build a ladder that reaches the ceiling. That's a thatched roof—if we can rip a hole in it, we can climb out that way." She wished Garzhvog was awake—he could probably rip a hole in the wall with his bare hands, no problem. "Here, Jarsha, I'll see if I can help him wake up." She took the blanket from him and held it firmly to the wound with one hand. With the other, she patted Garzhvog's cheek, hoping against hope that he was strong enough to wake.

Her companions left the room to do as she asked, and she was left alone with the unconscious Urgal. Bending over him, trying to bring him back to consciousness, she couldn't help noticing the way his features looked when he was relaxed like this. Sleep melted about thirty years from his careworn face. He looked almost noble—angular cheek and square jaw, a high brow, a broad nose. His hair was usually tied out of the way with a piece of string, but it was loose now, longer than she'd thought and wildly curly. He must have greased it to keep it so tame.

His blood, soaking the homespun blanket, was black.

"You're lucky you have a thick skull," she murmured. "He must have hit you good and hard to make you bleed this much."

Garzhvog growled, his face spasming to bare his teeth.

"Hey now." She sat back on her heels, hoping he wouldn't lash out in his half-conscious state. "Garzhvog? It's Nasuada. Are you awake?"

He uttered a string of words Nasuada didn't know; from his tone, she assumed them to be swear words.

"Don't move," she ordered. "Your head is bleeding a lot."

He opened his eyes then, and his hand came up to touch his head. It tangled with hers instead as she pushed his questing fingers away. "Don't. I have a compress on it. You don't want to poke at it."

His yellow eyes focused and found hers. "Thank you," he said.

Then he rolled to his side and vomited.

Nasuada, wincing, kept pressure on the wound and stroked his shoulders soothingly until he was done. Afterwards, she helped him sit up, propped against the wall. "I'd get you some water, but we don't have any," she said apologetically. "We're barricaded in here. I've got Jarsha and Farica trying to break out, but… well." She shrugged, not wanting to insult her two attendants, but knowing they didn't have the power necessary to break down an Urgal-built wall.

Garzhvog groaned. "It was my brother," he said. "He and Karzhera must have planned this together."

"I hate to tell you this, but Farica and Jarsha mentioned your sister as well." Nasuada allowed him to take over pressing the blood-soaked blanket against the wound, and knelt facing him. "Do you have any idea why they'd hurt you? I understand why they would want me gone, but they're your family."

"My brother hates humans," Garzhvog said. "Karzhera too. They must see me as human-lover, traitor. They know I would protect you."

He looked around the room, registering the dim light coming from the windows in the other room. "Is it morning?"

Nasuada nodded. "I slept the whole night myself. That drug was strong."

Garzhvog made a face. "I should have pretend to be asleep. Now I am useless to you."

"Not useless," Nasuada argued. "You know this house, yes? You can tell us how to get out. What are its weaknesses? Any root cellars or hidden doors?"

"The thatch needs replaced in one corner. Noticed last night when I brought you here." Garzhvog began climbing to his feet, using the wall for support. "This is to be my house."

"Oh." Nasuada looked around. "It… well, it _could _be lovely."

"It needs much cleaning. My sister, she do not bother cleaning house that she do not use."

"Careful," she said, catching his hand. "You really shouldn't be standing up." She ignored the fact that Farica had said the same thing to her only minutes before, and had been disregarded. "I'll help you, but if you fall on me you'll probably squash me."

He chuckled. "I will fall the other way."

They made their way out to the main room. Jarsha had given up on the windows and was helping Farica heap broken chairs in one corner. Their ladder wasn't sturdy enough to climb, however; every time Jarsha tried, he ended up on his backside with a new bruise.

"Stop it," Nasuada called. "Jarsha, you're just hurting yourself."

"Let me," Garzhvog said. With Nasuada and Jarsha supporting him, he stood on a box and began to claw at the damp thatching. All that achieved was a fine rain of straw. Frustrated, he uttered a loud roar and punched the ceiling—and that did the trick. His arm went straight through up to the elbow.

"There," he said, sounding pleased.

A few minutes later, they were all sneezing at the tickling of stale hay wisps, but there was a hole in the roof big enough for a body to fit through.

"Climb on my shoulders," he told Nasuada.

She shook her head. "Let Farica and Jarsha go first."

So they did, wriggling through and jumping down to the ground with heavy _thuds_.

"Now you," he said.

"You won't be able to get through on your own," she said, meeting his gaze evenly. "I'm not just leaving you here."

"They are my family. Let me deal with them. You just find horse and get away from here."

"No," Nasuada said defiantly.

"Please, Lady Nightstalker."

"Garzhvog. I don't turn my back on my friends."

He swayed, and she moved to catch him without thinking. The next second, they were both flat on the floor, and she felt as though she'd never draw breath again.

"I am sorry," he said, rolling away from her. "Are you hurt?"

"I'll—tell—you—," she gasped, "when—I—can breathe."

Before she knew what was happening, his mouth was on hers, and he was breathing into her. She jerked away, heart pounding. "What—are you doing?"

"I thought," he stammered, "when a man stops breathing, to save him, must breathe for him."

"I only had the wind knocked out of me!" Nasuada gasped. "I wasn't dying. At least, I wasn't, until you went and _kissed _me."

"I did not mean to kiss you," he argued.

She sat up. "Yes, you did."

"No—I cannot. It is wrong." He looked away from her. "You are human. I am Urgralgra."

"I happen to know that Eragon kissed an elf," Nasuada said heatedly, unsure why she was arguing the point with such force. "Well, I mean, she rejected him right after that, but that doesn't mean it was wrong! My best healer Angela is half-elf, half-human."

Garzhvog shook his head. "That is different. Humans and elves, they look the same. Same skin, same shape. I do not look like you." He indicated the large, curling horns crowning his head.

"Don't be stupid," Nasuada said. "You're taller, yes. That doesn't matter. You have the same number of eyes, ears, and fingers… same nose, mouth, arms, legs." She lifted her hand to his horns, and he didn't stop her. "As for these—they are as much part of you as everything else, but they do not make you so very different. If you had a tail, maybe _that_ would make you different, but… you don't…" she trailed off, lost in the novelty of touching him.

He closed his eyes as she ran her fingers along the curve of his horn, and she wondered if he could feel her touch there. She moved her hand to cup his cheek.

"You cannot desire me," he said, his voice rougher than usual—almost a growl.

"Is that your opinion, or an order?"

He gripped her wrist, eyes flashing open to drown her in gold. "An order," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because I must not allow myself to desire you in return."

Nasuada chose to hear that as a challenge, not a warning. "I think I might enjoy making you," she said, and leaned close enough to touch her nose to his.

At that moment, the door swung open. Nasuada jerked away from him to see Farica and Jarsha peering at them.

"We cleared away the rubbish in front of the door," Jarsha announced. "You don't have to climb out."

"Thanks," Nasuada said, feeling breathless again for an entirely different reason. "Come, Garzhvog, we'd best not linger. Can you walk?"

He picked himself up and gave her a defiant look. Oh, now she _knew_ she'd gotten to him. He was threatened. Scared.

She knew the feeling. But she could still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers, and she had a feeling that, if she braved the fear and the strangeness, this new sensation would be well worth it.

***

Garzhvog felt dizzy and nauseous and weak, and not all of it was to be blamed on his head wound.

He had _kissed _her. Put his mouth to hers and satisfied a long-standing curiosity to know what her dark skin tasted like. And from her reaction, she was not at all disgusted.

He had carried her over the threshold of his house. She had stopped him from bleeding to death, rubbed his shoulders while he was violently sick, and she'd refused to leave him when it could have cost her own escape.

No wonder he couldn't bring himself to look at any of the other women in the village. None of them intrigued and confused him like Lady Nightstalker did—and he wanted no one who was less of a woman than she was.

That realization unsettled him. His baba had always told him that when he met the woman who was to be his mate, he would know somehow. But was this what she had meant?

Remembering his promise to his mother that he would come back, he led the humans toward his mother's hut. He entered warily, but she was alone in the house, sitting in a bentwood chair with one of Ferazhka's daughters asleep in her lap.

When she saw him, her eyes grew wide and she whispered, "Ah, son, you must leave here now!"

"What are Ferazhka and Skgahgrezh plotting, Baba?"

"They want to use your human lady to blackmail the human government into giving us more land or some such nonsense," she said. "They'll keep you drugged if you resist. They've gone to tell the soldiers to leave without you—before they get back, you must run! Far, far, fast as you can."

"Oh, Baba." Garzhvog bent to embrace her. "If I go, I may never return."

"If you are alive somewhere, that is enough for me." His mother stroked his cheek. "Go, son. Go, _myka_—" using the Urgal word for _darling_.

He couldn't go without asking. "Mother, you said that when I met my ideal brood-mate I would know in my heart. What if my heart points me to someone who is—is not—"

Her eyes crinkled in a smile. "It is the lady, yes? The human lady? Oh, Gar. It will be a hard path for both of you if that is who you choose, but you must decide if she is worth the hardship."

"I love you, Baba." He kissed her forehead and, turning to Nasuada, switched to the human language. "My brother is making the soldiers leave. You must get to your horses."

"What about you?" Nasuada said. "You can't ride, but you're in no shape to go on foot."

"Do not worry about me. It is far better that I am caught by my family than if they catch you. With me they may show mercy."

Nasuada, however, was ignoring him. "Is that lady your mother?"

"Yes—" Garzhvog choked on the rest of the sentence, for Nasuada had bent and put her arms around the old lady.

Garzhvog's mother looked surprised but gratified. In the language of the Urgralgra, she said, "Rahna bless you, daughter of the heart."

He felt his face darken with embarrassment, and hoped to heaven that Nasuada did not understand.

"Hurry," he urged her, and this time she obeyed.

"Son, you'll want to put a herbal dressing on that wound before it goes bad," his mother called after him.

He glanced back and muttered something like, "Yes, Mother," before hustling out of the house. He couldn't bear to think that this might be the last time he would see her, and lingering would only weaken his resolve to go.

They stuck to shadows and backyards, narrowly avoiding being seen. Garzhvog, not for the last time, cursed his height. An eight-foot-tall ram was hard to hide even among his own people.

The horses were still picketed outside the village, where most of the soldiers had camped last night. The problem was getting to them; they'd have to run across a large open space, and Karzhera and Skgahgrezh were both standing nearby. A single word from the Herndall, and everyone in the village would be chasing them down.

"We should butcher the horses," Skgahgrezh was saying. "So those humans have no way of escape."

"I don't know," Karzhera said. "Maybe we should send the pink ones back to the human capital, to negotiate for that dark slut's ransom. I've been thinking, and I think we should ask for a full half of their land. It's not like they're using it, after all."

Garzhvog made some quick calculations in his head. He knew he couldn't run fast enough or far enough to keep up with the horses—not with his head bleeding like it was. He was lucky to even be upright.

On the other hand, if he took a stand against his people, if he could block them from pursuing the humans until they were well away—then at least Nasuada and her companions would be safe. He couldn't say the same for himself, at least not for certain, but death almost sounded like mercy at this point. And the humans, at least, would remember him as a hero.

"When I say run, you run," he told Nasuada in a no-argument tone. "I will fight them if they try to stop you."

"Garzhvog, you—"

"_Run_," he growled, daring her to disobey.

She ran. So did Jarsha and Farica. And Garzhvog, horns held low, a full-throated bellow ripping from his throat, charged.

Skgahgrezh hit the ground with Garzhvog's horns in his gut. Karzhera shrieked, "Stop them!"—but it was too late. Nasuada had slashed the ropes binding the horses, and the humans were already in the saddles.

"Lame those beasts, idiot!" Karzhera yelled to the crowd in general. A few of the soldiers heard her and dove to trip up the horses; Nasuada's mount reared, despite her best efforts to speak soothingly in its ear.

Garzhvog, meanwhile, was being pummeled by his own brother. "You—don't—know how—long—I've wanted—to do this," Grezh grunted, each word punctuated by his fist slamming into some part of Garzhvog's body. "You were always Mother's favorite—the Kull, the rutting _hero_—it's my turn now, Gar, _my turn_. You'll die a damn _traitor_."

"I'd like to—ugh—see you beat me up—ahhh—when I'm not weak and wounded," Garzhvog hissed, hating his limbs for being so slow. He was going to lose consciousness again, he could feel it. _Please, Rahna, protect Nasuada from my family's folly_.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The frenzied fight paused as, dreading, everyone looked up. A pair of dragons soared into view over the treetops—blue and green, awesome and terrifying.

"Slytha!" shouted one of the Riders, and several Urgals around Garzhvog sank to the ground unconscious.

"Eragon," Nasuada cried. "What are you doing?"

"Saving your hide," he shouted back. The two of them came in for a ground-shaking landing. Eragon vaulted out of Saphira's saddle and held up a gallant arm to help Elva down from the green dragon's back. "I knew you wouldn't be safe. Told you so myself. So I've been scrying you to keep an eye on things. When I saw what happened to you last night, Elva and I had to come."

Garzhvog watched with a pang as Nasuada, fairly crying with relief, flew without hesitation into the Rider's arms.

***

"Feeling better, I see."

Garzhvog's insides turned over when he heard her voice. He'd been at the healer's a whole week and was almost recovered, but she hadn't been to see him. It wasn't really her fault—ever since she'd wept all over Eragon that day, he'd been turning away visitors. It would be much easier, he figured, if they could just forget each other. He was sure Eragon would make her a better mate, anyway.

"The witch said she would not let you in here," Garzhvog said, turning to face her. She wore a small, apologetic smile and a short-sleeved dress that showed off the scars on her forearms.

"Angela had to go across town to deal with a sudden, urgent illness," Nasuada said. "I think she will find the child much recovered when she gets there, but all I need are a few minutes."

"You are—" he tried to think of an appropriate adjective, but couldn't come up with anything in either her language or his own.

"Look, Garzhvog," Nasuada said, sitting down next to his pallet. "I know you probably think I was acting crazy. Now and then, I can't help it. Just tell me we can at least be friends. I hate that you're avoiding me."

"I thought you would be busy," Garzhvog muttered. "With your mate."

"_Mate_? Good gods, what—oh—you can't mean _Eragon_?" When he dipped his head, she laughed. "I think you've been very much mistaken. Eragon is a dear friend, bless his dense little heart, but his heart has always belonged to another."

Garzhvog's heart pounded. "The elf?"

"Her at first, yes. Now I rather think he likes his fellow Rider, Elva." Nasuada grinned. "There was a time when I might have wanted him, but that was before I got to know him."

"Oh," said Garzhvog.

"Now you, on the other hand… when I met you, I thought you were nothing more than a noble savage. But that was before I knew you. You're strong, loyal, chivalrous—the more I got to know you, the less I could imagine wanting anyone else."

He couldn't speak.

"Have you asked Angela about her parents yet?" she said gently. "An elf man and a human Rider. They were happy together while it lasted… they didn't even have to endure the pain of her aging while he stayed young, because Galbatorix killed them both. Romantic, in a tragic way, I suppose."

Garzhvog growled. It was impossible to resist this woman. What she wanted, she received. Knowing he'd never win, he tilted his head back and exposed his neck, at the same time lifting his hands in the human sign of surrender.

"I surrender," he said. "You win. Do with me what you will, human lady. I am yours."

"Unconditional surrender," Nasuada said, grinning. "I've always liked the sound of that."

And, climbing onto his bed, she kissed him until he could no longer remember what it was he'd lost.

***

_I tried to hold you back but you were stronger_

_And now it seems my only chance_

_Is giving up the fight_

_And how could I ever refuse?_

_I feel like I win when I lose…_

_I was defeated, you won the war_

_Promise to love me forevermore_

_Couldn't escape if I wanted to_

_Knowing my fate is to be with you_


End file.
